


you make me wanna die

by poetictragedy



Series: derek hale's dark passenger [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Biting, Blood, Breathplay, Brief Mentions of Harm To Animals, Creeper Derek, Dark Derek, Dark Past, Depressed Stiles, Hair Pulling, Insults, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Character Death, Murder, Obsession, References to Suicide, Rough Sex, Sadism, Self-Harm, Serial Killer Derek, Stabbing, Stalking, mentioned past Derek/Jennifer and Derek/Kate, mild possessive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetictragedy/pseuds/poetictragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very short and very tragic <strike>love</strike> story between a sociopath and a depressed teenager.</p><p>(warning: this fic does <em>not</em> have a happy ending; read at your own risk.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make me wanna die

**Author's Note:**

> If you came looking for a happy story, you're in the wrong place. This fic is tragic and pretty disturbing, so if that's not your cup of tea you best exit out right now and never, ever look back.
> 
> This fic came to be because a friend of mine gave me a prompt, a long time ago, for another pairing, using The Pretty Reckless' song [ _"Make Me Wanna Die"_ ] (which is where the title comes from, obvs) as inspiration, and I just decided to write it as Derek/Stiles instead.
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes you find... and for any warnings I may have left out. I tried to include them all.

Since birth, Derek Hale has been…  _different_. 

In school, he was always the kid that sat in the back of the classroom and only spoke when he was spoken to. The kid who was smart, yet antisocial, and who had a knife collection, along with a affinity for fire and all things combustible.

That obsession with fire is what cost his family their lives. 

On a hot July night in 2007, sixteen year old Derek Hale doused the leaves and brush around his home and lit them on fire. Later, he would tell himself that he merely wanted to see what the house would  _look like_  encircled in flames.

The entire Hale family, young and old, burned alive in their sleep while the arsonist and sole survivor stood, watching.

When the cops and fire department showed up later, Derek was covered in soot and his hands were burned. Everyone assumed that he had tried to go back into the house, to help, but Derek himself knew the real reason for the burns, for the ashes on his clothes.

Sheriff Stilinski took him back to the police department and gave him a change of clothes, which Derek took automatically. The sheriff took his apathetic nature as one of grief and shock, which is why no one looked at Derek as a suspect.

No evidence was found; any that had been there burned away with the family and Derek was let go without a warning. All he got was a clap on the shoulder, a warm yet sympathetic smile from the sheriff, and a ‘if you need anything, kid, I’m here’.

Before leaving the police station for good, Derek caught a glimpse of a little boy, who looked to be around ten, wearing a Batman shirt. He was sitting with another little boy, wearing a generic sports t-shirt, and the two were talking and laughing.

Derek, being sixteen, knew that he should have looked away but the kid was perfect; with pale skin that was dotted with moles and golden eyes that seemed so sincere when they looked at him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Derek Hale felt  _something_.

That was the moment Derek swore to himself that he would come back to Beacon Hills and find that boy, to see if thing had changed. 

And for the next six years, that unknown boy in the Batman shirt with the honey eyes never left Derek’s mind, not even once. It wasn’t a sexual thing, though the teenager couldn’t help but imagine the kind of man the boy would grow into, but more of an… emotional connection.

When Derek graduated from college, he came back to Beacon Hills for the perfect boy.

 

 

xx

The first thing Derek does when he gets back to Beacon Hills is go to the place where his childhood home once stood. It’s still there, of course, but it’s mostly a pile of ash and burned pieces of wood.

Derek parks his brand new Camaro a few feet away and gets out, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes scanning the wreckage in front of him from behind aviators. He can remember the night, can remember the flames and how the heat seemed to absorb into his body, and closes his eyes.

Everything rushes back to him at once and while any normal human being with a  _functioning_  prefrontal cortex would feel pain or some kind of remorse, Derek feels none. Maybe he feels happiness, a strange tingling in his limbs and a pooling of heat in his stomach, but no remorse or pain is present.

Nor will it ever be.

The night of the fire, no one in the house screamed — or at least that’s what Derek believes. He couldn’t hear anyone, not over the popping and cracking of wood, the sounds of the flames engulfing the entire house. 

Standing in front of what used to be his home makes Derek want to burn the rest of it down, though he knows by this point it would be useless. He walks forward and kicks a few things: a burnt piece of wood, a doorknob, what’s left of a teddy bear.

Derek stops in front of the steps, which are blackened pieces of lumber with ash and dust and pine needles covering them. He considers taking a trophy, something to take back to his apartment in San Diego, but thinks better of it.

The memories, he decides, are enough. He only takes trophies from the other crimes he commits: a blue beanie from the Lahey kid in his English class that Derek killed in freshman year; a pink, sparkly collar from the annoying Pomeranian that lived next to him that he permanently shut up two months ago; a picture frame from the house he burned down a year after moving to San Diego.

Derek remembers those things, remembers the first time he killed something (he was six and it was a stray cat), and feels the same rush he had while doing it all. He hums and shakes himself out before heading back to the Camaro, deciding that he’s had enough of reminiscing. 

Now, he thinks as he climbs into the car, he needs to find the boy.

For six years, Derek wondered why the boy was at the police station and decided that he probably belonged to one of the cops. So that’s where he figured where he would look and ask around, to see if anyone knew of the boy he was talking about.

The ride to the Beacon Hills police station is one Derek has been waiting far too long for and his body is thrumming the whole way. He’s not surprised to see that nothing has changed; there are few less cruisers in front of the building, though that doesn’t mean anything.

When Derek parks and gets out of the car, he looks to the building, feeling good about this. He has a good feeling that he’ll see the boy and maybe even ask him out for a cup of coffee.

On his way inside, Derek runs smack into someone. It isn’t until the tall, lanky kid backs up and looks at him that he realizes that  _this_  is the boy he saw six years ago. He’s grown up but the eyes are the same and so are the moles, the pale flesh.

"I’m sorry," Derek murmurs, flashing a brilliant smile.

The boy blinks, his cheeks pink. “It’s fine," he says in a quiet voice.

"Derek Hale."

“ _Huh_?"

"I’m Derek Hale," Derek repeats, his hand coming out of his pocket to extend to the boy.

"Oh." The teenager bites his lip and slips a long-fingered hand into Derek’s, shaking it slowly. “Stiles — Stilinski. My dad’s the sheriff."

Of course. Derek remembers Sheriff Stilinski from the night of the fire and forces a smile, though after fifteen years of practicing, it doesn’t really feel forced anymore. Derek’s smiles come naturally, though he’s hardly ever happy.

Derek brings his hand back and tucks it into his pocket. “Nice to meet you, Stiles. I am sorry for running into you," he says and tips his head toward the teen before walking past him, going straight to the information desk. 

When he leans against the desk, Derek can feel Stiles’ eyes on him and smirks, casually flirting with the woman behind the desk. The woman who pops her gum too loudly and smiles too brightly and whose laughter at his stupid joke is too raucous. That alone makes Derek want to kill her, but he doesn’t.

Sheriff Stilinski comes out of his office to meet Derek and the two of them exchange polite conversation. Which goes like this: “How have you been, Derek?"  _"Fine, sir, just working. I graduated college a year early and I've been working ever since."_ “Graduated early, huh? I bet your parents would be proud." _“Oh, I bet they would."_  “How’s your grandma doing?" _“She died about two years ago."_  “Oh, I’m sorry, son."  _"It’s okay; she was old."_  “How long are you in town for?" _“A few days."_  “Well, we should get together."  _"Definitely."_

And Derek gives Sheriff John Stilinski a fake phone number, making the older man promise to call him when he gets a night off. After getting a  _‘yeah, yeah, I promise’_  from him, Derek leaves and goes back to his hotel room to find out where John and Stiles Stilinski live.

It doesn’t take long to find that John, Sophia (deceased five years now), and little Stiles Stilinski live on Oak Avenue. Just a few clicks after that and Derek has a number for the house, though he doesn’t use it right away, just jots it down on a takeout menu.

This, Derek decides later that night when he’s getting ready for bed, is going to be well worth the six year wait. Even though things were never sexual with Stiles when Derek was sixteen, now he can’t stop thinking about getting the boy on his knees and his cock in that perfect bow mouth of his.

Derek jerks off to the thought of that and to the thought of fucking Stiles while he has one hand wrapped around his throat, choking him. He comes with the image of Stiles’ blood coating his hands and fingers in his mind.

 

 

**xx**

Derek decides to stay in Beacon Hills for a little longer. He calls the computer company he works for and tells them he’s taking some time off, that a family member got sick and he’s taking care of them. His boss doesn’t question anything, just tells Derek to take all the time he needs, and wishes his Aunt Grace a speedy recovery.

How long, Derek wonders, before they realize he has no family left and that there is no Aunt Grace and that he’s been lying to them this whole time? He doesn’t know for sure, doesn’t even  _care_ , because his job isn’t as important as Stiles.

Stiles Stilinski — a sixteen year old sophomore in high school. Plays on the lacrosse team, though he’s benched for most of the season, and has a thing for online roleplaying games. Best friend is Scott McCall, also on the lacrosse team, and other than that it seems that Stiles is your normal, every day loser.

Which is _perfect_  for Derek. If he decides to do this, to fuck around with the boy, he could take him without anyone noticing. Maybe even kill him one day and dump his body where it could be found. Scott McCall and John Stilinski would mourn the kid — but would anyone else? 

Derek  _sincerely_  doubts it.

 

**xx**

It takes two weeks of stalking and watching Stiles for Derek to even begin to think about making a move. He keeps himself hidden, knowing that if the sheriff caught him he’d be done for, and hacks into whatever of the boy’s accounts he can get into. 

One night, well after midnight, Derek sits at the small table in his hotel room, typing away on his laptop. He’s accessed Stiles’ therapist’s records by sheer luck and has pulled the teenager’s file up, reading through it as he sips coffee.

"Prone to panic attacks; has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder; shows signs of depression; has night terrors." Derek reads this aloud to himself, humming as he reads the therapist’s comments. “Stiles has the potential to be a very bright boy, should he choose to open up and show how smart he can be. Talks openly about thoughts of suicide and guilt over his mother’s death, which he  _insists_ is his fault."

A few sessions down and Derek reads, “Stiles showed me his arms today. There were burn marks and small cuts, straight lines and patterns carved into his skin. I asked why he did that and he said, ‘To feel something’. No more talk of the nightmares, though he told me before leaving that he burns himself as punishment for his mother’s passing."

Huh. Stiles believes he killed his mother, too? God, could he  _be_  any more perfect for Derek? Maybe, if only he had actually killed someone so they could share that kind of bond. 

It takes another day and a half of searching for Derek to dig something up on Sophia Stilinski, once Sophia Anderson. She was forty when she died of cancer, just five years before, and there are numerous obituary pieces about her.

Derek even stumbles across a picture of Sophia and a young Stiles, the boy smiling and holding onto his mother’s waist, his front two teeth missing. He brushes his thumb over the screen, over the black and white image of Stiles, and decides he can’t wait any longer.

 

 

**xx**

It’s another day before Derek can approach Stiles. He parks his Camaro down the street, in the garage of an abandoned home, and drinks coffee as he waits for Sheriff Stilinski to leave.

When he sees the cruiser go down the road and the Jeep stay put in the driveway, Derek gathers his keys before getting out of the car. He jogs down the road, suddenly wishing that he had worn looser jeans, and walks up the porch steps, taking a deep breath.

Derek knocks three times, rings the doorbell once, and steps back.

For two painfully long minutes, Derek waits for someone to open the door and when Stiles pulls it open, standing in the door frame wearing a loose Beacon Hills lacrosse hoodie, Derek smiles.

"Hey — Stiles, is it?" Stiles nods, his eyebrows pulled together. “I was wondering if your father was home? We were supposed to get together for dinner, catch up on old times, but he never returned my call."

Stiles looks Derek up and down, shrugging. “Dad just left for work," he says, his voice flat and his expression blank. Oh, Derek thinks, this is going to be _too easy_. “You can leave your number and I’ll have him call you back when he gets home."

"Thing is, I’m kind of hoping to get together with him soon. I leave for San Diego in a few days and I wanted to talk to John about some stuff pertaining to my family’s case."

"Your family’s  _case_?"

"Oh, you didn’t know?" Derek frowns, scratching the back of his neck lightly before dropping his hand away. “My family was burned alive when I was sixteen. I just wanted to see if any new leads came up."

"I’m pretty sure that’s a cold case by now, unless they clumped it in with all the other unsolved cases." Stiles’ lips quirk into a grin. “So you’re probably wasting your time," he mutters.

Derek knows he’s wasting his time; the case has been open for six years and unsolved. It’s on the verge of going cold, yes, but he couldn’t care less about it at the moment. All he wants is for Stiles to invite him inside and show him around, maybe to his bedroom.

"Do you think I could wait?"

A crease forms in Stiles’ forehead and he shakes his head. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea," he says, his voice uncertain but his eyes roaming all along Derek’s body and face.

"Please." Derek flashes a brilliant smile, all white teeth and charm.

"Well…" Stiles sighs and nods, opening the door before stepping back, motioning for the older man to come inside. “But I have to warn you — I know how to use a gun and I have a baseball bat upstairs."

Derek laughs and comes inside, breathing in deeply. The house is plain and decorated in soft tones, with pictures hanging all along the wall. It’s sweet, Derek thinks, and snorts at himself for even thinking that.

"I’m not going to hurt you," he says as he turns around to look at Stiles, his hands held up in the air to show he’s innocent. 

"That’s what all the criminals say on television before they  _do_  hurt you."

"On television, yes, but this is real life and I’m not going to hurt you."

Stiles looks at Derek, like he’s trying to size him up, and mumbles ‘whatever’ under his breath before disappearing upstairs. He calls down a moment later and tells Derek not to break anything or else he’s buying it.

With the boy upstairs, Derek pokes around on the lower level of the house, his hands roaming over everything. A thin layer of dust coats his fingertips when he pulls them back from a family photo and he wipes them on the couch, sighing.

Curiosity eats away at him, though, and he finds himself wandering to the stairs, looking up at them for a long moment. The sound of muffled music comes down and Derek smiles, walking up the staircase slowly, the old wood underneath his feet creaking.

Derek stops at the top of the stairs and listens, following the sound of the music to what has to be Stiles’ room. There’s a poster on the outside of the door, some shitty band that Derek’s never heard of, and he lifts a hand before knocking loudly.

A moment passes before Stiles answers, looking pissed. “What?"

"I just wanted to see if you’d like company," Derek murmurs, his smile soft and unwavering as Stiles glares at him.

"No, not from some dude who could be a rapist."

Derek laughs, “I’m not a rapist."

"How do  _I_  know that?" Stiles challenges, his arms crossed over his chest; the sleeve of his hoodie falls down a little, showing scars. He must notice Derek staring at them because he drops his arms to his sides and blushes.

"Don’t you think that if I wanted to rape you, I would have done it by now?" Derek asks and answers himself.  _Yes_ , he thinks, _I would have held you down in the living room and fucked you with my hand over your mouth._

Stiles narrows his eyes even more. “You have a point," he says and then licks his lips, “but that doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about raping someone. You know enough to do it as soon as I let you inside."

"That’s common knowledge."

"For  _rapists_ _._ ”

"For the last time," Derek says, clenching his jaw, “I’m _not_  going to rape you. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can go downstairs and wait for your father there."

Stiles cracks and huffs, walking back into the room. He flops down onto the bed and Derek comes inside, shutting the door before walking over to the desk, running his finger along a stack of books sitting on the edge.

"Doing some light reading?" Derek teases.

"Fuck you," Stiles snaps back and sighs.

This might not be so easy, Derek considers, because Stiles isn’t as open as he thought. Depressed teenagers don’t act like this; they mope around and brood, not snap at you and get angry. Maybe Stiles is bipolar and that’s why he’s acting that way.

Derek sits down in the chair and turns around. “Are you always this bright and happy with your other guests?"

"You’re the first."

"I’m honored." 

Time ticks by and Derek stares at Stiles, watching as he rolls his sleeves up to pluck a rubber band on his wrist. It snaps against his skin, making a sickening  _thwap_  noise that fills the air, and the teenager barely winces at the pain.

"You do that," Derek motions to Stiles, “in front of a lot of people?"

Again, Stiles answers with, “You’re the first."

"Hmm." Stiles snaps the rubber band again and Derek twitches, his cock hardening in his jeans as he watches. He knows that he shouldn’t be excited about this but he really, really is. 

Not even Isaac Lahey had been this easy. The kid knew pain, always came to class with a fresh bruise or cut on his cheek, and Derek had only killed him because the boy snapped on him. Death should have been peaceful for Isaac but he struggled until the very end.

Stiles won’t, though. Derek can tell by the blank look in his eyes as he snaps the rubber band against his wrist, repeating the action over and over, and wonders if he’ll accept his death peacefully.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Because it’s fun," Stiles says, snorting. “Why do you think, dumbass?"

Derek clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath through his nose. He can’t kill the teenager now because he wants, more than anything, to fuck him at least one time. To feel that mouth around his cock and feel Stiles’ Adam’s apple bob against his hand when he’s holding his throat.

"I was just asking," Derek murmurs, shaking his head.

The snapping stops and Stiles sits up. “Well I already have one therapist, I don’t need another," he mumbles.

"I’m not a therapist."

"Then what are you?"

"A computer programmer." Derek smiles, watching Stiles’ eyebrows raise in interest. “Unless you need advice about your computer, I can’t really help you," he says.

Stiles nods and smiles a little. “Cool," he says and scratches the inside of his wrist, nails scraping along fresh cuts and old ones.

They talk about what Derek does, exactly, and he tells the teenager all about the job he got in his senior year. He can tell that Stiles is getting more and more interested by the moment because he leans forward, his eyes glazed and fixed on Derek.

Half an hour later, Derek comes up with an excuse to leave. He gives Stiles his phone number, the one to his disposable cell, and tells him to call whenever he wants to get together again. When Stiles asks if Derek wants him to give that number to his father, he says no and smiles before leaving and going back to his hotel.

 

**xx**

Two days pass before Stiles calls Derek. He keeps his eyes on the teenager, though, and mostly just watches him practice lacrosse. Some asshole with the name WHITTEMORE written on the back of his jersey keeps shoving the teenager down onto the ground and Derek wants to kill him.

Because, as Derek sees it, Stiles is  _his_  to hurt — not this Whittemore kid’s.

When Stiles does call, Derek is laying on the middle of his bed jerking off, like usual, because he can’t really do much else. He alternates between working on his computer, reading books, and going through the rest of Stiles’ therapy notes, which has become boring.

The phone rings and Derek grabs the small, black device that he’ll dump as soon as he gets out of town. He hits the green call button and brings the phone up to his ear, trying to keep his breathing even.

"Hello?"

"Derek?" Stiles’ voice fills his ear and Derek smiles, humming. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime?"

A shudder runs through Derek and he palms himself, his cock throbbing at the mere thought of jerking himself to completion while Stiles is on the other line. The boy could hear him gasp and grunt and Derek could lie, say he was just working out or changing the oil in his car.

"Yeah," he breathes and swallows hard. “Give me thirty minutes and come by The Beacon, hmm?"

Stiles goes silent for a moment before saying, “Okay. What room?"

"10B." Derek chuckles when the teen says ‘gotcha’ and hangs up.

Once he’s no longer on the phone and his attention is brought back to the task (literally) at hand, Derek continues stroking himself. He thinks of Stiles’ mouth and his lips, which would look amazing wrapped around his cock, and arches off the bed.

And, as always, Derek’s “session" ends with him coming to the thought of Stiles laying on the ground, bleeding in front of him.

God, he’s so fucked — and he _loves_  it.

 

**xx**

Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, Derek walks around his room, shoving papers into his bags. He’s naked with a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping down his skin, and his hair sticking to his scalp. Puddles of water gather where Derek stood and he cleans them up with another towel before going back to the bathroom to dry off.

The waiting is what’s torture for Derek. He never had to wait this long for anyone else, especially not Isaac, and he’s jittery the whole time.

When someone knocks on the door twelve minutes later, Derek pulls a tight fitting gray shirt over his head and does his jeans up as he makes his way over to the door. After one more glance around the room, he opens it, and smiles warmly at Stiles.

"Come in," he says, motioning to the room. The teenager steps inside and Derek cannot shut the door fast enough. He wonders if Stiles would notice if he locked it or not, deciding not to bother trying in case the teen freaks and tries to bail.

Tonight, Derek’s going to play with Stiles and tomorrow… well, tomorrow might be his last day. Depending on how well the sex goes. Hell, if it’s perfect, Derek might take him back to San Diego.

Stiles moves to the bed and sits down. “I’m sorry for bugging you," he mutters and tugs at the ends of his sleeves.

"You weren’t bugging me."

"And you’re just saying that." 

Derek rolls his eyes and comes over, sitting on the mattress next to Stiles, putting a hand on his knee. “No," he whispers, “I’m really not."

"Huh." The teen looks down at the hand on his knee, then up to Derek, and makes a lunge for him. Their mouths crash together, causing the older man to curse when he bites his lip, and he pulls back, holding Stiles away from his body.

They breath heavily for a moment and Stiles breaks the silence. “Sorry," he says and laughs brokenly.

"For?"

“ _That_ ," the teen replies, flailing a hand at Derek’s bloody lip. “You’re six years older than me and why would you even be into me?"

Derek pulls his brows together and licks his lips. “I am into you and age is just a number, Stiles. You surprised me, that’s all," he replies.

"You… what?"

"I’m into you, too."

Stiles smiles and climbs onto Derek’s lap, the fingers of one hand tangling into his damp hair, pulling him closer. Derek goes willingly and kisses the teenager gently, smearing blood across his mouth.

When they pull back again, Derek groans. “Is this what you really want?"

"I’m a sixteen year old virgin," Stiles says, like that’s supposed to answer Derek’s question, and snorts. “So, yeah, of course this is what I really want."

"Being a sixteen year old virgin isn’t  _so bad_. I was seventeen when I lost my virginity," Derek offers and shrugs. He can remember that night and who it was with: Kate Argent, in the back of her father’s pickup truck. He came inside of her with his hand wrapped around her throat and her nails digging into his shoulders.

They both went home that night, bloody and bruised, and Derek still gets off to the memories sometimes.

Stiles raises a brow, looking unimpressed. “Okay, yeah, and that was six years ago. Now, in _two-thousand-thirteen_ , people make fun of you for being a virgin at sixteen," he mumbles.

"You make me sound old."

"Well," Stiles says, grinning, “you kind of are."

That pushes a button in Derek and he flips the teenager over onto the bed, pressing Stiles’ body down with his own. “You were saying?"

"That doesn’t prove anything."

Derek clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing into slits as he looks down at Stiles, whose cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, tongue darting out to lick his lips.  _God_ _,_  those lips.

Without saying another word, Derek leans down and catches Stiles’ mouth in a biting kiss. He can taste blood on his tongue and isn’t sure if that’s from his split lip earlier or because he broke the skin of Stiles’ but either way, it causes his cock to harden once more.

And the noises Stiles is making. Derek has never heard anything more beautiful, not even coming from the mouth of Jennifer, his old neighbor, who squealed loudly whenever she came… and who screamed beautifully when Derek stabbed her.

Those thoughts stir up something in Derek and he presses his hips down against Stiles’, grinding them together with a groan. He can feel that the teenager is hard, probably has been since the moment they kissed, and he chuckles darkly against Stiles’ mouth.

"You want me to fuck you?" Derek asks in between kisses, nipping and sucking on Stiles’ lips as he nods his head fervently. “Say it."

Stiles gasps and mumbles, “Fuck me."

"No, I want you to say  _‘Derek, fuck me’_. Just like that."

“ _Derek_ ," the teen gasps, “fuck me."

"How hard?"

"As - _ah_  - hard as you can." Stiles’ head lolls back as Derek thrusts their hips together, rutting against the boy like he’s a teenager all over again, his breath coming in short pants.

Derek pulls back after a moment, grinning. “I don’t think you want me to fuck you that hard," he mumbles, his hands wrapping around the hem of Stiles’ shirt, shoving it up his stomach. He manhandles the teenager into a sitting position and tugs the fabric up and over his head, throwing it somewhere onto the floor.

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, shivering, “I do."

"Do you  _know_  how hard I can fuck?" Derek asks; Stiles shakes his head, eyes locked on the older man’s, irises dark and pupils blown. “If I fuck you as hard as I can right now, you’re going to be sore for  _days_."

A whimper escapes Stiles’ throat and Derek grins.

"You want that, huh?"

Stiles nods, squeaking quietly.

God, what the fuck did Derek do to get so lucky with Stiles? The kid is more than perfect and if he could fall in love with anyone, Derek’s pretty sure he would have those feelings toward Stiles. For now, though, lust is a pretty good emotion and Derek’s never wanted someone so badly.

"Get naked." Derek moves away from Stiles as he says that and stands, taking his own shirt off, throwing it somewhere. He undoes his jeans on the way to his bag and bends down to rummage through it, grabbing a bottle of lube and a condom. 

Derek  _may_  be a psychopath but he does believe in safe sex for all.

When he turns around, Stiles is laying on the middle of the bed, naked save for a pair of skimpy red boxer briefs. The front is tented and Derek is pleasantly surprised at how big Stiles’ cock seems to be and he licks his lips, coming over.

"I said  _naked_ — is that naked, Stiles?"

Stiles’ cheeks turn red and he shakes his head, taking his underwear off. “Sorry," he mumbles, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

A hum settles low in Derek’s throat as he takes his jeans off, kicking them to the side. He takes his black boxers off next, letting them fall into a pile on the floor beside the bed as he climbs onto it. Stiles is shivering and Derek thinks he looks beautiful like that, pale skin on display and shoulders trembling.

Oh how Derek wants to tell him it’s going to be okay.

To calm the teenager down, he leans in and kisses Stiles lightly, easing him down onto the mattress. He’s probably giving the kid a false sense of security but, whatever, Derek likes to have his playmates calm before fucking them.

"Relax," is all Derek says before getting started.

After popping the top on the lube, he pours some onto his fingers and presses them against Stiles’ entrance. Right off the bat, Derek slips two digits into the teenager and his cock  _throbs_  when Stiles lets out a pained whimper, his hands coming to claw at Derek’s back.

Stiles scratches him and Derek hisses sharply. “Sorry," the teen mumbles, breathing harshly as he pushes back against the hand between his legs.

Derek doesn’t say anything; he works his fingers in and out quickly, wanting to get Stiles ready as quickly as possible. He doesn’t think he’s going to last long when he’s inside of the teen and groans, thinking about it.

The teen is hot and tight, like he’s never had anything inside of him, and two fingers slip in and out easy enough after a few minutes. Derek slips a third into Stiles and works these in and out a little slower, not wanting to tear the teenager. 

A little pain is alright; something that requires a hospital? Not so much.

"Fuck," Stiles moans from above him, his hands in Derek’s hair, twisting and pulling, nails scratching along his scalp.

Derek’s fingers start to separate, opening Stiles up. He whimpers and arches off the bed again, his breath coming fast and shallow. The older man licks his lips and thinks about biting Stiles somewhere but keeps his head in the game; fuck the kid, dispose of him, like everyone else.

Maybe Derek won’t kill him until later; he did that with Kate, after all. It wasn’t until graduation that he killed her and it wasn’t until after he’d fucked her that he slit her throat.

"Shit." Derek breathes hard and pulls his fingers out, apologizing and saying that he can’t wait any longer. Stiles makes him promise to go slow and, being the fake nice guy he is, Derek lies and promises.

It takes a moment for Derek to get the condom open. His hands are shaking in anticipation and, once he finally gets the packet open, he takes the latex out and rolls it down over his cock. Stiles watches him and gasps, eyes rolling back before fluttering shut.

Once the condom is on and his cock is lubed up, Derek pushes Stiles’ legs back against his chest and lines up. The first thrust is met with resistance and Derek has to smooth his free hand along the teen’s thigh to get him to relax.

Stiles nods and his muscles loosen, allowing Derek to slide in and, god, it’s better than anything he could have imagined. He sinks his cock in all the way with one sharp thrust and when Stiles cries out, Derek immediately clamps a hand down over his mouth.

"Shh," he whispers, rotating his hips slowly. Stiles’ eyes are watery and he nods, moaning against Derek’s palm, the muffled noises vibrating against his skin.

This isn’t going to last long. Stiles’ muscles are clenching around him and they’re too tight, Derek can’t even think properly with how goddamn tight the teenager is. But he wants to last for a while, wants to give Stiles a proper fucking and first time before doing anything else with him.

Derek pulls out slowly, at an achingly slow pace, and thrusts back in, angling his hips in a way that has Stiles’ head snapping back. He lets it happen, keeping his hand on the teen’s mouth so he’ll be quiet, though Derek wants to hear him moan.

"If you promise to be quiet," he whispers, leaning over as he pulls out only to thrust back in sharply, “I’ll take my hand off your mouth. Can you promise not to scream?"

Stiles nods and Derek reluctantly pulls his hand away.

The first noise that escapes is a whimper, followed by a moan, and a shout that has Derek bringing his hand down against Stiles’ throat. His palm smacks against the teen’s Adam’s apple and he holds him down, groaning.

"Told you to be  _quiet_."

No response comes from Stiles, only small, strangled noises.

Derek licks his lips and tightens his grip a little, pushing his hips up against Stiles’ ass harder. He starts up a rhythm, a quick thrust-in/thrust-out pace that has both of them moaning, except Stiles’ are a lot quieter and come accompanied by sharp snorts.

The noises sound amazing to Derek and he chokes the teenager a little more, getting another strangled noise from him. It goes straight to his cock and the older man fucks Stiles harder, the other hand wrapping around one of his hips, holding on tightly.

"You feel…" Derek breathes in deeply and lets his head fall back. “You feel so fucking good. So _perfect_ ," he whispers, punctuating the last word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

One of Stiles’ hands comes up and scrabbles against his chest, nails scraping along his skin. It takes Derek’s mind a moment to catch up and realize that he’s cutting off Stiles’ air supply. He immediately pulls his hand away and drops it down, wrapping his fingers along the teenager’s other hip.

The noises that come from Stiles are wheezes. Soft little sounds that never cease to make Derek shiver and he can feel himself getting closer, his cock slamming into Stiles even harder than before.

"Derek…"

"Hmm?"

"Can I — " Stiles croaks and moans, coughing lightly before finishing, “come?"

Derek’s head is spinning and he nods, letting the teenager stroke his cock as he continues to fuck him. God, he may just keep Stiles around for a while because fucking him sounds a hell of a lot better than killing him.

Then the thought of Stiles’ blood on his hands, on the blade of his knife, crosses Derek’s mind and his orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. He comes hard, his hips stuttering against Stiles’ ass, and his breath coming out in harsh pants, his hands never letting up on the teen’s hips.

When he comes down from his orgasm, Derek hears Stiles whimper and mewl, his body moving against the bed as his hand flies up and down his cock. He grabs the lube and pours some onto the teen’s shaft to help him before leaning down to whisper things into Stiles’ ear.

Stiles comes when Derek says, “You’re such a good slut."

Thick ropes of come hit Derek’s chest and stomach and he groans, knowing that the two of them will have to take a shower before Stiles leaves. He talks Stiles through his orgasm and pulls out once he’s done, taking the condom off as he stands, disappearing into the bathroom.

Derek flushes the condom down the toilet and comes back, motioning for Stiles to join him. “We’ll take a shower," he says and Stiles smiles, nodding weakly as he gets off the mattress, hissing.

The shower takes thirty minutes and Derek cleans every inch of Stiles he can reach, making sure no evidence is left behind. When he’s sure that the teenager is as clean as he can be, Derek helps him out of the shower and dries him off, even helping him get dressed again.

"Can I see you again?" Stiles asks on his way to the door, a slight limp in his gait.

"Maybe, we’ll see." 

Stiles nods, leans in for a kiss, and Derek presses one to his cheek. He watches the teen walk down the hall and disappear into one of the elevators before going back inside.

That’s when it hits him: Stiles doesn’t see this as just  _sex_. He’s developing feelings and probably thinks Derek is as well when, really, all the older man wants is to fuck him.

Derek decides, that night, that he can’t string Stiles along anymore and he sends the boy a text, telling him to come to the Beacon Hills preserve at three PM the next afternoon.

 

**xx**

When the afternoon, Derek checks out of his hotel room and packs his things away in the trunk of the Camaro, leaving one bag out. He lays that one on the passenger seat and goes back to his old house to look around one more time.

This is where it all started, the place where Derek’s obsession with fire, death, and destruction laid its roots. He knows that he wasn’t always like this, just doesn’t know what happened in his life to cause him to be so screwed up… but he wouldn’t change anything.

As long as he’s not getting caught, Derek has no worries. He knows how not to get caught, has picked up tips along the way, and if no one’s come after him for killing Kate Argent, Isaac Lahey, Jennifer Blake, and the few others — then why should he worry?

Derek walks around the property slowly, flicking a zippo open and shut, looking at the place where he grew up. Where his sisters used to play and where his brothers caught frogs to scare the women in the family. 

One time, his younger brother brought a toad into the house and wanted to keep it; Derek ended up dissecting the thing in the clearing and told James that it ran away. The kid, being four at the time, believed him.

There were other animals that Derek started out with, too: Laura’s puppy she got for her birthday; Cora’s bird that she saved from the woods; the countless fish Lee and James used to bring in from the creek. He even killed a squirrel his mother was nursing back to health, all for the fun of it.

Now Derek has to kill someone again and his hands shake with excitement, his body thrumming. It’s been so long and he knows that maybe he could go back home without killing Stiles but it’s been something he’s dreamed about for years.

After making one trip around the house again, Derek checks his watch and grabs his bag from the passenger seat of the car. He strips off his leather jacket, lays it on the backseat, and starts walking through the woods.

The spot where Derek told Stiles to meet him is three miles away from where his old house lays. He picked the clearing because it was the first place he came to kill something and it holds a lot of memories. It’s empty when Derek gets there and he gets ready while he waits. 

The hunting knife he brought with him gets hidden in the back of his waistband and he puts the bag of spare clothes he brought behind one of the trees. Just as he’s finishing up, Derek hears someone trudge through the woods and swallows hard.

Stiles breaks through the trees then, smiling. “Hey," he says.

"Hello," Derek answers, motioning for him to come close. He immediately unzips Stiles’ jacket and pulls it off his shoulders, throwing it onto the ground a few feet away. That’s his trophy for this kill and he doesn’t want to get it bloody, can’t risk it.

"Why did you want to meet out here?"

"Because… this place has a lot of memories and I wanted to be somewhere peaceful when we had this talk."

The colour in Stiles’ face drains and he frowns. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want to see me again?"

"Yes," is Derek’s answer and he sighs. “You’re sixteen, Stiles, and I’m twenty-two. It could never work between us." There’s a pause and then he says, “Besides, you’re too screwed up for me. What teenager cuts and burns himself, then snaps a rubber band against his wrist just to feel pain?"

Stiles stares at Derek, tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck you," he mumbles and there’s no heat behind the words.

"I fucked you last night and it was good, yes, but who’s to say you won’t become a common whore? You’ve had one dick, why shouldn’t you want to have more, huh?"

"I won’t."

"Sure, that’s what they  _all_  say," Derek says and laughs, the noise sharp and high, filling the air. “Look, you’re a good fuck and I’m sure we’ll do this again but I can’t…  _be with you_."

Tears stream down Stiles’ face and he wipes them away. “So, what, you used me because I’m some depressed kid and I was  _easy_?"

Derek hums, nodding.

“ _Fuck you_ , Derek!" Stiles hits Derek’s chest and the older man wraps a hand around his wrists, holding them so he can’t do it again. “I was just starting to feel good about myself and then you do this?!"

"I knew you would be easy. The depressed ones always are."

Stiles stares at Derek, fire in his eyes and his jaw set. “You make me wish I had killed myself a long time ago," he mutters.

"Maybe you should have," Derek agrees.

A loud, frustrated noise comes from Stiles’ throat and Derek drops his hands, ducking when he throws a punch at him. That’s when he grabs the knife from behind him and he clamps a hand over Stiles’ mouth, shoving the knife into his stomach.

The teenager’s eyes go wide and he whimpers against Derek’s hand, eyelashes fluttering as the older man twists the hilt. Another noise escapes and Derek takes the knife out before slamming it back in, over and over.

Blood covers the knife and Derek’s fingers, pooling on the front of his shirt as he holds Stiles against him. When the teenager’s body goes lax and the life is slowly draining from him, Derek lays Stiles down on the ground and plunges the knife down in one more time.

Derek pulls his weapon out after the final blow and rummages through the teenager’s jeans, grabbing his cellphone. He carries it over to the bag, putting it inside along with the hoodie, making sure to use his least bloody hand.

When Derek’s ready, he makes his way down to the creek and starts to clean up, taking his clothes off before changing into the clean pair. He starts a fire then, throwing his old outfit into the flames and tossing Stiles’ cellphone in with it, but only after turning it off.

Once the fire is gone and Derek’s clothes are reduced to nothing, he heads back to the Camaro, carrying his bag with him. The knife gets wrapped up in a sheet of plastic and shoved underneath the passenger seat.

Derek looks back at the house, grins, and says a final goodbye before pulling away from it, never to return again.

 

xx

Twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills, Derek calls 911.

"9-1-1, what’s your emergency?"

"Yes," Derek answers, pulling an accent, “I’d like to report a possible animal attack."

The operator hums and answers, “What location?"

"Five miles east from the beginning of the preserve. It’s a young boy, looks like maybe some kinda wolf or bear got to him."

"And may I ask what you were doing in the woods when you stumbled upon this?"

"I was going on a hike, saw the body, and ran, thinkin’ there was a bear in the woods. Waited until I got to my truck to call."

Silence.

"And what’s your name, sir?"

Derek hangs up and disassembles the phone before throwing one piece out the window at a time. He staggers it, only getting rid of a piece every thirty minutes, and when it’s all gone, Derek makes his way back to San Diego.

 

**xx**

Three days later, Derek turns on the news to see Sheriff Stilinski on television, his eyes misty. He’s surrounded by other law enforcement officials and they news channel brings up a picture of Stiles before John Stilinski starts speaking.

"My son was murdered three days ago," he starts, “and his body was left in the preserve. We’ve scoured the place for clues and any evidence but have yet to find any. We think whoever murder Stiles may have raped him prior to the killing."

John Stilinski pauses and another picture is brought up. “I’ve asked around and talked to anyone that may have saw my son, to see if they can remember seeing him with anyone. A few witnesses say they saw him with this unidentified man," he mumbles and they bring up an awful sketch of what’s  _supposed_ to be Derek. 

"If you know anything about this man, please call the Beacon Hills Police Department immediately. Anything will help." John pauses and clears his throat before thanking the crowd.

The news channel leaves the picture up for a few more minutes and Derek isn’t worried; the sketch looks  _nothing_  like him. He shuts the television off and goes into his room, taking down the box marked ‘memories’.

Inside, on top of everything else, lies a purple sweatshirt and Derek fingers the fabric gently, smiling to himself.


End file.
